


Oктябрь, or Autumn in Saint Petersburg

by kremlinology (orphan_account)



Category: Political RPF - Russian 21st c.
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Look mom, M/M, Politislash, Ruspol, Russia, i wrote a thing that isnt smut, literally just fluff, no like nothing happens, polifics, putvedev
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8401558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kremlinology
Summary: It is October. The sky is grey, the leaves are falling, and a chill wind has begun to blow. The President and Prime Minister of the Russian Federation spend some quality time in Russia's second capital.Inspired by Francis Cabrel's Octobre.





	

I MISS YOU.

Dmitry had sent him the text during the last quarter of a long Duma meeting. He couldn't concentrate for the next hour, fidgeting, staring out the window at fog-drenched Moscow, dwelling on Vova's reaction. Tree branches cracked and waved and leaves blew across the pavement. Finally, just as Dima was leaving the room, his iPhone buzzed in his pocket. 

COME SEE ME.

Vladimir was in St. Petersburg for discussions on local politics. Dima thought about it for a moment, and shook his head; it could be complicated. He walked down the hall to his office and pressed the call button. 

The President's voice washed over him, suddenly and powerfully.

“I'll meet you at the airport. Or the train station, if you prefer—”

Dima cut him off. “Vovka, I have work to do!”

“Have a holiday instead.”

“One of us has got to stay in Moscow, at any rate.” Dima crinkled his eyebrows, staring out the window at the grey-white city.

“How about Surkov? They'll call me if anything big happens.”

“ _Surk_ —but Vova, are you sure—”

“Mitya, everything will be fine. I want to see you.”

Dima blushed at that. “Meet me at Pulkovo,” he sighed.

“Fine. See you then.”

Dima smiled broadly. As was so often the case with Vova, he hadn't really wanted to change the man's mind. To have a day alone with him in Petersburg, perhaps two! His breath caught in anticipation. “I love you,” he declared, impulsively, but sincerely.

There was a pause.

“I love you, too,” said Vova finally. Dima could almost hear him smile through the phone. It sounded honest. His blush deepened.

*

Vladimir Vladimirovich sat on a bench outside the bustling airport, dressed unassumingly and looking like any ordinary member of the public. It was a blustery day, and the branches cracked and groaned in the wind, shedding flaming orange and dusky brown leaves onto the paving stones.

“Volod'ka!” He lifted his head, and there, stepping through the rotating doors, was Dima. Bathed in late-morning light, crunching through the dead leaves underfoot, he was pretty enough to burn straight through the dreary weather.

Vova stood up and smiled. 

“You're going incognito?” Dima grinned, coming up to him. It was true that Vladimir was hardly recognizable, and he had even walked to the station from his hotel.

“Once a spy, always a spy.” Vova grinned and lifted his scarf to cover his face, leaving only his eyes exposed. 

They both laughed.

*

Somewhat at a loss for what to do, and not particularly interested in finding anything, the two walked around the city for a while. They made a brief stop at the Angleterre, to drop off Dima's suitcase, but otherwise they drifted, with no clear aim. They'd both spent decades here, but now it felt fresh and exciting.

They sat at the edge of a stone fountain in the dim sunlight, watching red and yellow leaves twirl through the air. The pool was already clouded with the colours of autumn. Scores of leaves floated on the water or drifted sleepily to the bottom. But this fountain would continue to spurt icy water until it either clogged up with leaves or froze over, because that was the way St. Petersburg was. Not that Moscow was much better.

Lost and invisible in their coats and scarves and gloves, they wandered. They found the deserted remains of a festival off Nevsky Prospekt, with a large temporary stage that seemed to be in the process of being disassembled. It had the mysterious appeal that crumbling, cordoned-off work sites had to schoolboys in search of adventure. The two men stood in front of it for a while, considering. Volodya was the first to make a move: with bourgeois flair, he stretched his hand out to Dima.

“Shall we?” he proposed, smiling mischievously, and added: “This is my country, after all.” Boyishly, they ducked under the yellow tape, and laughed aloud at themselves. 

There wasn't a construction worker in sight. The President and Prime Minister of the Russian Federation explored the ruins of the festivities. Greyish clouds hung over the two of them. Amid the bare steel tables and empty paper cups, they found drooping flowers wrapped in coloured napkins, flourishing them at each each other as offerings of love. 

As the sun began to dip in the sky, Vova suggested they return to the hotel. There was a nice restaurant where they could go unnoticed.

“And watch the sunset together?” Dima's heart fluttered.

“If you like.” They exchanged smiles. Vladimir called his chauffeur. 

*

So there they were, gripping the handrail as they half-hung their torsos over the side of the restaurant balcony, gazing at the view of St. Isaac's Cathedral illuminated by the fall-coloured lights of evening. The place was deserted; Dima assumed Vova had arranged something with the owner. 

Gradually, and then all at once, as they inched closer and closer together, seeking warmth and tenderness on the empty, coolly marbled, blustery pinnacle where they found themselves together, Vova ended up with one arm around Dima's shoulders, and Dima with a hand on Vova's waist.

They stood rather stiffly like that for a few moments, two hearts beating madly and silently without looking at each other, before exploding into laughter. It was nervous at first, but their hands went flying in the tumult, and soon all the hesitations and inhibitions that had frozen them in place were behind them, and Vova's hands were combing Dima's windswept hair, and Dima had attached himself to Vova through the medium of a scarf and was clinging to him like love itself. And together they watched the city slide from gold to red to pink, tumbling at a giddying speed, but so gently and quietly you just about didn't notice it happening, into indigo dusk.

Sitting on cold lawn chairs under nothing but the clouds, over a modest dinner at a small round table at what might as well have been the top of the world, they reminisced lavishly.

*

The morning came almost against their will. Melodramatically, the sloping red dawn lit first the dead flowers on the windowsill, those they had given each other the day before—“I must buy you some decent flowers,” Vova had whispered—and later, slowly, the multicoloured fabric of hastily removed clothing strewn across the floor of the hotel room.

"Good morning," said Vova with a smile as Dima's eyes flickered open.

The morning felt tranquil. Mornings rarely did, when you were responsible for the fate of the Russian nation. But this one did. Neither wanted to move. The room got brighter and brighter. The two of them lay in bed, held hands, locked lips, whispered sweet nothings. Eventually, reluctantly, they got up, stretched, and made themselves presentable.

They sat on the windowsill together with room service coffee. Dima, noticing the frost on the window, lifted a hand and traced a heart with his finger. Vova raised an eyebrow. Dima, undaunted, took his lover's hand in his own, and drew in their initials. They didn't wipe it off. It felt symbolic.

They left the hotel and stayed out on the streets of Saint Petersbug until long past midnight.


End file.
